


If there's something I can't change, I'll live around it

by earnestbros (departureboard)



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Allusions to National-Security-Related Trauma, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Nightmares, Recreational Drug Use, Semi-Public Sex, Sharing a Bed, Very Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:57:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23869102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/departureboard/pseuds/earnestbros
Summary: The thing is, Lovett’s cursed with self awareness, so when he went into business with Tommy in the midst of a national emergency, he expected pretty much exactly this.ORLovett gets a clue, in vignettes.
Relationships: Jon Lovett/Tommy Vietor
Comments: 47
Kudos: 96
Collections: Crooked Exchange 2020





	If there's something I can't change, I'll live around it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fizzy_smile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fizzy_smile/gifts).

> Fizzy, your prompts gave me so many ideas, but I cannot resist TommyJon or mutual pining, so this is where I landed. I'm _so_ hoping it brings you some joy today!
> 
> Thank you so much to okaystop and Moreanswers24 for giving this a read-through and generally being nice!!!
> 
> This story is told in 10 vignettes, over the first year of Crooked, January-October.
> 
> Please do not share this outside of our sweet little fandom, and certainly not with anybody connected to the boys. Keep it secret, keep it safe.
> 
> Title is from _Slide_ by the Goo Goo Dolls.

**January 2017**

The day before the inauguration, their plane finally taxis at JFK six hours behind schedule. Lovett, Tommy, and Jon all but crawl through baggage claim before tucking into their Lyft, exhaustion at the point where it’s making them softer, dulling their senses.

It’s 4:30 in the afternoon and the sun is already setting in New York. It's raining, and their driver is smoking, leaving the windows open to unsuccessfully counteract the smell, making the air in the car damp and just _this_ side of frigid. So, maybe it’s just the edible Lovett took during his flight, but he’s back in his city, and his thigh is warm where it’s pressed against Tommy’s, and it feels nice. He's just—it’s really, really nice.

Tommy is slumped, tired. The blue light of the large screens lining Times Square is dancing across his face, making him surreal, uncanny. Blue eyes made gray and pink lips made purple.

This is the image of Tommy that always seems to stick in Lovett’s memory. Asleep, slouched against their ugly couch in DC, Blackberry clutched in his hand while ESPN plays muted in the background. A gaping violet mouth and hair Lovett wants to touch.

There’s always a carefulness to the memory, or a care to it; he's never been able to tell the difference when it comes to Tommy.

Lovett takes a deep breath and shifts to sit on his hands, looking out his window. He’s in for a very long four years, and he’s already tired. He’ll take the good things where he can get them: Tommy quiet and peaceful next to him; Jon’s soft voice chattering with their driver; Lovett’s city pulsing, welcoming him home. He stretches his arm out the window, lets the wind move him how it wants. He opens his palm and spreads his fingers wide, watches his pale hand slice the night into dark blue ribbons.

**February 2017**

Tommy flies down to Los Angeles in February to film the first episode in the _Pod Save America/Funny or Die_ series. He’s staying with Jon, so Lovett and Pundit carpool with them to the studio where they’re scheduled to shoot.

They’re given a tour to get them oriented to the set. Lovett and Jon pay little attention, Jon having been on countless sets to support Andy, and Lovett having been on countless sets because of his past life as a screenwriter and showrunner. Tommy, on the other hand, is taking in every detail, interjecting with polite questions.

The lighting crew completes their set up as the producer finishes running through their outline, and then they go through one final sound check. As they call for quiet on set, Pundit is being cuddled by every member of staff who walks in the room, Jon is fidgeting in his seat and toggling between his annotated outline and his text chain with Emily, and Tommy is nervously tucking his hands under his thighs, somehow maintaining perfect posture as he does so. He’s wearing his light blue button down, sleeves rolled up to bare his absurd forearms because he, apparently, hates Lovett and wants to hurt him. 

Lovett buries his head in his phone, for lack of anywhere safer to look, managing to distract himself so successfully that he misses them going live.

Once they get into it, though, they find their footing like they always do, talking through the machinations of all of Trump’s stooges, Bannon and Cohen and Lovett’s favorite, Sater, who famously stabbed a man in the face with the stem of a broken margarita glass.

When they discuss Trump’s former National Security Advisor, Lovett can’t help but giggle. “Do you think, now that Michael Flynn’s been fired, that it was a good use of my time to read his book?” he asks. 

He watches Tommy curl into himself to laugh, chin to chest, long fingers twitching where they rest on the mousepad of his laptop. Jon jumps in to provide context, though Lovett is a little absorbed, looking at Tommy, and then realizing he’s been looking at Tommy too long, and then_—_oh! Look!_—_there are Lovett’s hands. That’s a reasonable place for Lovett to look while he’s on camera.

“Lovett read Flynn’s book over the weekend a while back so that he could then go on Hugh Hewitt’s radio show and be embarrassed by Hugh Hewitt,” Jon says.

“Mission accomplished,” Lovett smirks as Tommy chuckles.

“Is that right?” Jon smiles, turning to Lovett. “Did I summarize that correctly?” he adds, because Jon’s need for praise is so constant and absolute that he requires a thumbs up from the person he’s making fun of about _ the way _he’s making fun of them.

Lovett hedges. “I have to say though, in hindsight, my suggestion that Flynn might not be a good pick for National Security Advisor has borne fruit.”

“Right,” Tommy says dryly.

“It _ did_,” Jon insists. “You were accurate. You were very good there.” And _that’ll_ be the Catholic guilt kicking in, Jon trying to make up for his worry that he might have been too mean.

“I’m done with this topic now,” Lovett laughs. But then Jon continues with Flynn, and Lovett shrugs. “Oh, we’re not?”

Tommy, eyes sparkling, cups his hand in front of his mouth and stage whispers to Lovett, “It’s the only thing I know.” Lovett tilts his head back and laughs.

At some point in the filming, Pundit walks over to sniff at his feet and Lovett lifts her into his lap. Tommy leans over to scritch the side of her head _just so_ the back of his hand is resting against Lovett’s bicep, lighting him up.

Lovett’s feeling pretty good about the shoot, despite—look, not being _ entirely _ prepared. He admits as much when Jon covers some background detail and Lovett learns about it in real time.

Tommy’s face scrunches up in laughter. “It broke two days ago,” he murmurs.

And on it goes.

The thing is, Lovett’s cursed with self awareness, so when he went into business with Tommy in the midst of a national emergency, he expected pretty much exactly this. 

The election was already lost when they made the decision. Actually, the election was held, with someone of such low character as the nominee of one of America’s two major political parties, so even before the election was lost, the country was.

Lovett knew the days were going to be long. He expected bone-deep exhaustion, fear, noise when he wanted quiet, quiet when he wanted noise. He expected Jon’s gentle ribbing and his guilt, his trust in the process.

He expected Tommy’s sarcasm and humility, his tendency to indulge Lovett’s best and worst impulses. He expected Tommy to be kind and brutal and just as angry as Lovett.

All of it takes up every waking hour of Lovett’s day. Every millimeter of brain space. Consumes him.

But still, they’re pulling themselves through this, the three of them together, and it’s the best thing in his life.

**March 2017**

Lovett is finishing introducing the panel during his first ever Lovett or Leave It when he spots Tommy in the audience, five tables back.

He feels the familiar tug under his sternum, the rush of excitement, before he remembers that Tommy being here—in LA, at the Improv—makes no sense. Tommy is supposed to be flying down _ next week _ to be a guest for Lovett’s second show. _ This week_, he should be in San Francisco—_where he lives_. Eight hours away.

Lovett flits his eyes over to Jon where he sits next to him on stage, on the chance that Jon can project an explanation into Lovett’s head, but Jon’s turned away, full-body-listening to Michaela.

With no space to interrogate the situation, at least not with any immediacy, Lovett immerses himself back in the show, not missing a beat. But there isn’t a moment that Lovett can’t feel Tommy’s eyes on him, playful and searing, even with his face mostly obscured in shadow. Lovett feels a little more in his body, a little more centered, a little more generous, knowing he’s the center of Tommy’s fervent focus.

He’s still buzzing with adrenaline as he wraps up the show, as he debriefs with Jesse, as he heads up the hallway to the green room, where Michaela, Katie, Emily, Jon, and Tommy, are already gathered.

Jon spots him first. “Hey, man,” he says, right as Emily rushes forward to give Lovett a hug before he can reject it.

“You were so good and I’m so proud of you I can’t stand it so _you have to stand it_,” she singsongs, wrapping him up tighter and only pulling back when Lovett has folded his arms around her and squeezed a little.

When they step apart, Jon grins. “Tommy came down a bit early to work out house stuff for the move.”

Lovett nods. That makes a hell of a lot more sense than Tommy flying down just to see his show. “Well, I’m glad you can suffer fewer days in the lesser part of our great state.”

Tommy chuckles, eyes crinkling. For some reason, Tommy seems to love how much Lovett hates San Francisco.

“San Francisco...oh, it’s LA, but it’s colder and uphill. You know what I hate about New York? Delicious restaurants. But I love the prices!” he adds, just to see Tommy go pink with laughter. He’s not disappointed.

“Thank god I’m getting out of there,” Tommy indulges. 

“How’s the search going? You still thinking West Hollywood?” Lovett busies himself gathering his things. A floral fleece, the shirt he arrived in but sweat through, the 3 remaining cans in a 6 pack of Cherry Coke Zero, and a single Slim Jim.

“Yeah, since I’m guessing you’ll insist the office be near you when we get to that point. Makes sense to be close by,” Tommy says.

“I biked and scootered through a swamp almost every day for two and a half years. I deserve recompense in the form of never having a commute again,” Lovett says absently, turning back around to see Tommy fiddling with the zipper on his own windbreaker.

“You headed back with Jon and Em? I’m guessing you have showings tomorrow?” he adds. 

There’s a brief pause while Lovett finishes tucking everything into his tote.

“Yeah, I guess,” Tommy finally says, unsure. “I didn’t think that far ahead. It was a last minute decision to come down early.” Another pause. “Really glad I got to see your first show though, man,” he finishes, voice painfully sweet in a way Tommy almost never is. Unnecessarily sweet. _ Uncalled for_, one might say.

Although, maybe that’s not fair. He saw Tommy like this in DC, too. With increasing frequency by the end of Lovett’s time there. Lovett had chalked it up to Tommy finally recovering from all the fallout with Katie and finding his footing again. 

Maybe it’s just a fact of Lovett’s life now, living in Tommy’s pocket, that he’s going to see him like this all the time.

***

_ The opportunity to do a stage event at SXSW comes up, and within an hour of the invitation coming through, Tanya and Sarah have offers out to guests, the appropriate internal staff cleared to travel, flights booked, and a block of rooms reserved. The only problem, Sarah explains, is that, due to limited availability during a major festival weekend, they have to consolidate rooms on the third and final night in Austin. And since Jon brought Emily on the road with him, and Tanya and Sarah are much more comfortable inconveniencing Lovett and Tommy than they are exploiting new junior staff, Lovett and Tommy are told they’re bunking together on the final night. _

_ The weekend schedule is so demanding and Lovett is still so engrossed in the newness of everything that he doesn’t really have time to think about it until he gets back to his room and hears the shower running, sees Tommy’s neat navy blue suitcase at the foot of the bed, where it was dropped off early this morning after Tommy formally checked out of his first room. _

_ Lovett pulls out his dopp kit and sweats, trying not to dwell on the domesticity of getting ready for bed when Tommy is only about seven feet, a paper-thin wall, and an incompatible sexuality away. _

_ But then Tommy steps out of the bathroom with only a white towel tied low around his waist, chest wet and flushed. There’s a droplet of water sliding down Tommy’s shoulder, diverted when it runs into a bulging vein on Tommy’s bicep. _

_ “Is the bathroom free now?” he blurts, watching Tommy flush deeper, before seemingly collecting himself, like he’s coming out of a daze. _

_ “Yeah, yeah. All yours,” he murmurs. _

_ Lovett walks stiffly to the bathroom, focusing on his Spartan nighttime routine as if his life depends on it, drawing it out as much as he possibly can. _

_ Eventually, though, he has to get in bed with Tommy. Because the thing is—Tommy doesn’t suck nearly enough to do the straight boy shuffle about this, and Lovett is too much of a comfort creature to take the floor—so they’re going to lie side by side, and the crazy thing is, Lovett can’t even picture it in his mind’s eye. His body next to Tommy’s body. Unthinkable. _

_ He braces himself and heads out into the main room, dropping his semi-open dopp kit on top of his suitcase. And well, the only way out is through. Tommy is sitting cross-legged on the left side of the bed, scrolling through his phone, so Lovett folds himself under the covers on the right side, his back to Tommy. “You mind if I turn my light out?” _

_ Tommy hesitates but sounds sure when he says, “Yeah, yeah. Go for it.” _

_ Lovett adjusts the pillow under his head, but Tommy’s presence behind him just feels so weighted. _

_ “Uh, just a heads up,” he hears Tommy murmur hesitantly. “I, uh, move around a little in my sleep. Sometimes, uh, I’m vocal. It doesn’t happen often. But it does happen more when I travel. So.” _

_ Lovett feels his stomach clench. He heard enough of the un-sexy kind of thrashing from Tommy’s room back when they were roommates to know what Tommy’s really saying. He remembers Tommy coming home from fourteen hour days in the Sit Room, eyes unfocused and jaw clenched. He’s having nightmares, again, or still. _

_ “Great. As you know, I’m famously agreeable when inconvenienced. Also famously well-rested. A bright-eyed morning person, they say,” Lovett drawls, and what he means, of course, is _you’re safe here.

_ Tommy’s quiet for a long moment. But just as Lovett is dropping off, he feels the lightest pressure against his shoulder blade, there and then gone. “Thanks, Lo.” _

_ An indeterminate amount of time later, Lovett wakes up to a high-pitched whimper. There’s no movement, no thrashing, but Lovett can feel how tense Tommy is holding his body in his sleep. The room is dark and thick, but Lovett can make out Tommy’s furrowed brow and fisted hands by the moonlight sneaking through the curtains. _

_ Lovett tries to reason out the etiquette around waking people up when they are clearly having bad dreams. He’s never been on this side of things before. On either side, really. Lovett mostly gets anxiety dreams, but he never remembers them. The only reason he even knows he’s had one is that he wakes up nauseous, with a stomach ache from having clenched his core all night._

_ He scoots a little to give Tommy as much space as the bed will allow and calls Tommy’s name in his gentlest voice. _

_ He watches Tommy wake in stages. First going lax, still asleep, then tensing, half-awake, then finally opening his eyes, confused, furrow still firmly in place, before he seems to realize what’s going on, and then the self-loathing crosses over his face, sad and familiar. _

_ “‘M so sorry, Lovett. Sometimes. In unfamiliar beds…” _

_ Lovett tries to keep his voice as steady as possible. “Is there anything that usually helps?” _

_ Tommy laughs, no humor, a bad joke Lovett’s not in on. When Lovett remains quiet though, Tommy deflates. He looks down at his hands, wringing them together, before his eyes meet Lovett’s again and he reaches with his left hand to take Lovett’s right. Lovett lets himself smile, squeezes Tommy’s hand, trying to say, _ take whatever you need. _ Tommy drops his eyes down to where his hand is engulfing Lovett’s smaller one, and then he bites his lip, and starts to move. _

_ To Lovett’s shock, Tommy slides in toward him and then down, just a little, so he can wrap his arms around Lovett’s middle and press his head against Lovett’s sternum, over his heart, between his ribs._

_Lovett freezes at the unexpected tenderness, and feels Tommy stiffen against him. _ _“Is this alright?” Tommy breathes. _

_ It’s—it’s almost unbearably intimate—Tommy’s hair tickling Lovett’s chest even through his thin tee shirt. “Yeah, you’re good—you’re fine,” Lovett gets out, and his voice carries way too much of his meaning. But it may be worth it because Tommy’s arms tighten around Lovett, and then Tommy just _sinks_ into him, quiet and warm._

_ Lovett’s chest tightens at this display of Tommy’s trust in him. He feels desperate to slide his fingers into the soft baby hairs at the base of Tommy's skull, to rub circles on his back. But he doesn't dare._

_Tommy nuzzles into Lovett's chest, dopey, and then, within the space of a breath, he's asleep. _

***

They haven’t really addressed it. Not that they need to. Lovett woke up before Tommy the next morning, an instance so rare it should be preserved in amber, and slipped out of bed before any part of his brain or body could get used to anything he left behind.

Tommy in the present is quiet and thoughtful—almost like—well, like he’s trying not to spook Lovett. “What do you think about…” he starts to say, but then Em walks over and taps Tommy on the arm. 

“Jon and I are headed home, you slumber partying with us?”

Lovett scolds himself when his heart sinks into his stomach. Like he’s back in college and, after getting himself all worked up to go to a party just on the chance he’d see the guy he wants to see, he has to watch him leave and take all the night’s promise with him.

Ridiculous. Lovett interjects, maybe too loudly, “Bye! You three have a wonderful evening coasting on the dopamine I generated for you with my comedy _ juggernaut_.”

“You’re a nightmare,” Jon says cheerily. Lovett turns to pull on his windbreaker and circles back around to see the three of them filing out, Tommy trailing a few steps back.

“Bye, Lovett,” Emily shouts. “Your show is special and so are you.” She waves from the door, perfectly sincere and insincere in the way that only Emily can be.

He hears Jon laugh as Tommy turns around, lifting his left hand in a dorky little wave, and then he turns and he’s gone too.

**April 2017**

Tommy finally moves to LA in April. 

Lovett and Jon are helping Tommy transfer all of his earthly belongings from his rented UHaul to his new house, and Lovett is already seeing the error of his and Jon’s aggressive advocacy for this move. Because, you see, increasingly throughout the day, Lovett has been forced to contend with the fact that Tommy’s strength is functional.

Watching him lean down to lift a box of cast iron cookware, back muscles contracting under the thinnest tee shirt Lovett has ever seen Tommy wear. Watching Tommy squat down in his basketball shorts to maneuver furniture through his doorway. Lovett would bet that he has not skipped leg day in the four years since he left the White House. Watching Tommy, flushed and breathless, set his mattress on his bed frame and then _ sink down onto it _ for a break.

Lovett embargoed himself from looking at Tommy’s biceps after Tommy effortlessly lifted his dad’s antique trunk and Lovett dropped the plate he was attempting to remove from its bubble wrap.

Emily, Andy, and Molly pop in at random intervals to help unbox the bigger items and assemble the couch, but they’ve cleared out with Jon by the time the last boxes in the living room are being broken down and taped up for recycling. Lovett’s long abandoned even a handwave at helpfulness or productivity, sitting atop one of the smaller boxes, marked “‘04 Senate Run,” and scrolling Twitter on his phone while Tommy finishes cleanup.

Soon enough, Tommy throws his boxcutter on the coffee table. “Okay, I think we’ve reached a good stopping point for today, which I don’t have to tell you, since you stopped an hour ago. But that’s most of it. Wanna light up?”

“No, I don’t want to light up. Our voices are our meal ticket, Tommy. I have weed gummies in my car.” He fishes his keys out of his pocket and slides them on the coffee table. “There’s also half a sleeve of Newman-O’s on the passenger seat, if you could grab those for us, too.”

A little over an hour later, they’re lying down on their backs in Tommy’s backyard because Tommy wanted to look at the stars and - “Like, feel small, dude.”

The grass is sticky from the humidity earlier in the day, and Lovett knows he’ll grow impatient with the discomfort soon, but Tommy is almost timid, radiating warmth next to him, and free associating in the way he only does when he’s baked. So, Lovett lets himself have this for a minute, lets Tommy’s voice wash over him, consonants softened.

At some point, Tommy turns to face Lovett, curling up into a little ball on his side. Lovett’s just high enough to let himself revel in this too, the weight of Tommy’s gaze, an imposition, a frightful thing, usually.

“Now that I’m moved in, I should get an animal,” Tommy breathes, boyish and sweet.

“Yeah, yeah. We can all see your puppy boner from space.”

“Gross!” Tommy smiles, edging even closer. “Don’t forget that I also have a kitty boner. A cat would be cool. As long as she gets along with Pundit.” Tommy nods to himself.

“Pandering! Trying to get in good with the cat people and the dog people.”

“That’s small thinking, Jon Lovett. I’m disappointed. Those preferences can and do in-intersect! in the real world. You’re looking at a prime example.”

Lovett starts to respond but then he decides it doesn’t matter and also he thinks he sees a squirrel nefariously plotting something in his periphery, but quickly realizes it’s just the neighbor’s gnome. That keeps him occupied for a while.

At some point, Lovett picks the conversation back up. “Pundit is my first animal and I love her and I love being her dad,” Lovett can feel his face pull into a grin of its own accord. 

“My first animal was my cat, Mouse. She was—she was just a champion, Lovett,” the dumb, blue, sparkly boy next to him says. Lovett had something to say about naming a cat Mouse and thinking you’re a clever little_—_little sweetheart or punk or whatever, but then Tommy was _ dumb _ and _ blue _ and _ sparkly _ in the eye area.

Tommy’s still on it, though. “My favorite cat feature is purring. It’s like a real-time positive review of my cuddling. I thrive on the feedback,” he says, and then flashes two thumbs up, readjusting on his side to free up his bottom arm to do so.

Lovett can’t help but laugh at that.

Tommy squirms just a little closer and lifts his thumb to poke at Lovett’s cheek where it’s lifted in a smile. “And that’s my favorite Lovett feature.”

Lovett feels his belly flip, and turns so he’s facedown in the grass, where no one can be too nice to him. “That’s ridiculous. Just ridiculous,” he says, hopefully not to an anthill. His head is too heavy to lift and check.

“Thank you for helping me today, Lovett,” and Lovett can’t tell if his overly-cautious tone is because he’s nervous or because he’s high and trying to be overly-quiet.

“Are you relieved you don’t have to go back and forth anymore?” Lovett asks, trying to match Tommy’s quiet tone. Trying not to let his voice carry anything he’s thinking at all.

“Yeah, Lovett,” Tommy breathes. “It’s always a relief to come home.”

**May 2017**

All things considered, Lovett’s been trying not to just pop by Tommy’s as much. 

_ Tommy Vietor, 1:17: Lovett. _

_ Tommy Vietor, 1:17: Why is my Sonos playing the Rains of Castamere. _

_Jon Lovett, 1:18: I was driving by your street on the way home and I had to seize the moment. _

_Tommy Vietor, 1:19: To scare me to death while I try to make my lunch? _

_Jon Lovett, 1:19: Your speakers deserve a break from your combination of terrible, early-2000s, frat boy hip-hop and gentle, country-adjacent pop that sounds like a Borrower man in a tan flannel singing under a mushroom. _

_Tommy Vietor, 1:19: You’re on my street? Swing by. _

_ Tommy Vietor, 1:19: And I think that one got away from you. _

Lovett turns his car around. Of course he turns his car around. Pundit’s curly little head perks up from the passenger seat at the sharp turn. “Sorry, Pundit, it’s stupidity hour,” he mumbles, extending his free hand once he completes the turn to give her an ear scritch.

One of these days, Lovett will have a proportional response to Tommy’s attention, one that doesn’t make him shape his entire life around being at the center of it. At some point, visiting Tommy will stop making him feel like he’s a mouse shocking his nose on a chunk of electrified cheese again and again.

_Tommy Vietor, 1:21: Sorry my music doesn’t fit your high-brow criterion of “could a protagonist run through an airport to this?” _

_Jon Lovett, 1:24: Sue me for being a romantic! _

_ Jon Lovett, 1:24: Speaking of which, we’re outside your house now. _

Right as Lovett and Pundit step onto Tommy’s porch, he hears him shout, “It’s unlocked. Come to the kitchen. I’m finishing a Blue Apron thing.”

“It smells like seafood,” Lovett shouts as he kicks off his shoes and moves into Tommy’s kitchen. Pundit’s already running to the corner where Tommy keeps toys for her and Leo.

“Yeah, it’s the Memorial Day box, so,” he holds up a butter-grilled hot dog bun, “Lobster rolls.”

“You’re making lobster rolls by yourself on Memorial Day Saturday?”

“You got high and rewatched Star Trek VI by yourself last night. On Memorial Day Friday.”

“It doesn’t count as a solitary activity if I live-text my impressions to the friends who care the least about the Roddenberry universe,” Lovett crows.

“You’re right,” Tommy says dryly. “I did feel a part of it all, whether I liked it or not.”

Tommy turns to read the recipe.

Lovett settles into a stool on the other side of the kitchen island and, officially, is on Twitter, but every once in a while, he looks up to watch Tommy. So competent, so comfortable in his own body, trying his lobster-mayo-celery salt-black pepper-lemon mixture, tasting and making adjustments as he goes, humming when he gets it right.

Lovett heads to the fridge with the intention of grabbing a drink for himself, but when he sees the 6 pack of Smirnoff Ice, his goals change.

He covertly snags a bottle, tucking it into the pocket of his sweat shorts, also grabbing a La Croix to cover his tracks. Like the perfect accomplice/angel she is, Pundit prances into the room to sniff at Tommy’s feet and headbutt his shins. Tommy drops the butter lettuce he’s using to line the hot dog rolls back on the cutting board and leans down to greet Pundit. “Hi, good girl,” Tommy coos and Lovett almost misses his opportunity to make the plant, feeling Tommy’s voice like a physical thing, dancing up his spine, liquifying him.

He manages it though, because when Tommy straightens and resumes his work, lifting the package of lettuce to find the bottle nestled within it, he snorts. “Honestly, Lovett?”

But then a shit-eating grin spreads across his face, and he raises his eyebrows, ever so slightly, before taking a deliberate step toward Lovett and dropping to one knee. He doesn’t take his eyes off Lovett as he twists off the cap and draws the bottle to his lips.

Lovett doesn’t even have the presence of mind to disguise his choked laugh. Lovett desperately moves his gaze to the counter-top, which does not have gravity-defying cheekbones or toned forearms or invisible yet compelling eyebrow game.

The thing about loving Tommy is that it doesn’t hurt all the time. In a, like, fit of cruelty from the folks in charge of universal design, Tommy is not just curious and familiar and impossibly consuming but also _really fucking fun_. Which, maddeningly, just draws everything out. Tommy provokes him and challenges him and reassures him and riles him up and Lovett has no choice but to ride it out, absorb every bit of Tommy’s precious attention.

Tommy polishes off the bottle and uses Lovett’s hip as support to stand, boyish grin firmly in place. “You’ve set a dangerous precedent.” Tommy gestures to the empty bottle in his hand.

“I laugh in the face of danger,” Lovett says mindlessly, cracking open his La Croix.

“Help me assemble these last few rolls,” Tommy asks. “I’m starving.”

**June 2017**

They arrive in Maine, and of course, it’s a perfect day. What nonsense. Maine has good weather, at maximum, thrice per year. Sometimes the universe is reprehensibly obvious about its favor for Jon Favreau and Emily Black.

The ceremony is pastel and traditional, but Emily is mesmerizing and Judge Black is quick and adoring as he presides. The flowers are the highlight, of course, because Lovett and Emily chose them together.

The reception is perfect. O’Neil demands that Lovett reserve several spaces on his dance card for him, and they catch up over the course of the night, intermittently cutting a serious rug, sometimes with guest appearances from Alyssa and Molly. Shomik starts a conga line, Andy and Cody performatively grind on each other while Kristen pretends to faint from heartache, and Molly tells a story about her grandfather so genuinely surprising that one of the older guests has to go change their undergarments. They all take turns twirling Leo while Jon and Emily are with the photographer.

And through all of it, there’s Tommy, tall, broad, and sunlit in his stupid, custom suit.

Somehow, every time Lovett’s eyes direct themselves to Tommy, Tommy is looking back. When Tommy's taking Leo for a spin, organizing drink top-ups with Alyssa, moshing with Josh, hunching in the corner with Ben as if he hasn’t literally engineered his entire career around speaking to Ben Rhodes for several hours every week, his eyes are on Lovett, warm and unreadable. 

Eventually, as the sun goes down. Emily and Jon have tended to all their official duties, and they fold right back in with Lovett and O’Neil, right where they belong. 

There’s a good chance that Lovett is _ in his cups_. And he’s with his very favorite people, drunk on that, too. Molly twirls him and Andy under each of her arms, giggling when they spin back together so Andy can (shallowly but enthusiastically) dip Lovett. His back doesn’t arch that much, okay?

Tommy scoots in next to Lovett right as he’s straightening from Andy’s hold. Lovett doesn’t even have to look to know it’s him. He spares a brief moment of irritation at that; he has enough to deal with without Tommy smelling hot and rich all the time.

Andy twirls away from him, wrapping around Molly and looking completely moonstruck. Lovett says to no one in particular, “I love Andy because he reminds me of a minor character on _7th Heaven_ who’d show up every few episodes to pine for Mary just when my baby gay sex drive needed it the most.”

Tommy laughs. “What would literally ever prompt you to watch _7th Heaven_, Lovett?”

“I contain multitudes, Tommy,” Lovett sniffs.

All of them kind of circle up as more and more people turn in for the night, leaving just their core group on the dance floor. A familiar song comes on, and they all shriek in recognition, before a hush falls over them and they all just sort of—sway together.

Tommy’s solid next to him, undeniable. There’s just something about music and Tommy.

Lovett listened to _this particular song_ way too much when he was a lovelorn little freshman, staring out his dorm room window at the Williams foliage, assigning weird little identities to all his classmates walking by below. Listening to it now makes it too easy to feel like he’d just been waiting for Tommy, even then. Like somehow, music makes Tommy span his lifetime, reaching back to all the spaces where he wasn’t before, filling Lovett’s entire life. Like he’s loved him for all of it.

That’s—fuck. That’s probably his cue to leave. He turns to make his excuses to nobody in particular, knowing that they’re all having brunch tomorrow morning, so he can phone it in a little now with the good byes.

The walk is mostly quiet, Lovett’s heart lodged in his throat as it is. It’s all crunchy gravel and then gently crashing water. The night feels so thick you could hammer into it and hang a painting. Where the sand gets a little looser, Lovett takes off his shoes and socks, letting them dangle from his fingers as he walks along the shoreline.

He’s found a place to sit, idly drawing in the sand, hoping to kill enough time that he doesn’t run into anybody on his walk back to the cottages they’re all staying in, when he sees Tommy approach. Of fucking course.

Lovett casts about for something—anything that will protect Lovett from whatever kind of heretofore unknown sweetness or horror comes out of Tommy on a deserted Maine beach after midnight, a liminal space where nothing is real.

Tommy sinks down next to him. “Okay if we take our quiet together?” Tommy asks, and it’s clear that Lovett could say no. But Lovett doesn’t want to now that Tommy’s here. Tommy has always seemed to understand that Lovett loves his applause, but even more than that, he loves his quiet. He loves the intimacy of sitting with a friend, providing no performance, and still making them happy with just his closeness.

“Sure, Tommy,” he smiles. And he goes back to playing Tic Tac Toe with himself in the sand. Eventually, Tommy wordlessly takes the O’s, and it pretty quickly devolves into an alcohol-fueled, competitive jabbing of fingers against the sand. Tommy catches one of Lovett’s flying hands with his own, laughing, preventing him from drawing a second X in the same turn. Lovett takes the hand Tommy hasn’t caught to reach around and draw the X anyway.

“You monster,” Tommy giggles, catching the other hand and pushing Lovett back into the soft sand. “You don’t play fair,” he grouches. But Lovett is not following the conversation because now he's on his back, gazing up at Tommy as he hovers over him. 

Tommy seems to realize it, too. But instead of pulling back, Tommy just stares, like he’s looking for something.

Lovett’s lungs don’t seem to be able to take in oxygen. All he can hear is the water and his own heartbeat. Tommy slowly adjusts their hands where they’re cupped next to Lovett’s ears, twists them so their fingers are all slotted between each other’s.

“_Lovett_,” Tommy sighs, and then lowers his body to tilt his forehead against Lovett’s. 

“Tommy,” Lovett breathes in sharply as Tommy brushes his mouth to the corner of Lovett's with the softest pressure. A question.

Lovett doesn’t let himself think, he just shifts his neck to capture Tommy’s soft mouth. Feels Tommy mewl against his lips.

Tommy kisses him slow and deep, starting with soft, open presses of his mouth, and building until he’s sucking gently on his tongue, biting at his lips, soothing him sweetly with his mouth and his hands. There’s something worshipful and primitive in the way Tommy directs their bodies, presses him into the sand, clutches at him. Lovett feels thoroughly _ touched_, thoroughly _ held_, thoroughly _ ruined_.

Tommy pulls his head back, and Lovett’s whine feels like it’s pulled from the center of his being. No. _ Please_. More. “Always wanted,” Tommy gasps, looking lost. “Fuck, _ Lovett_.” And then he’s pressing back in, nuzzling into Lovett’s neck, taking his mouth again. Lovett just surrenders it up, gives Tommy everything.

He doesn’t even care that this is going to fucking kill him later. He takes, too. Takes everything Tommy gives with both hands, starving.

**July 2017**

It’s the Fourth of July and, per sacred tradition, Lovett and Spencer are facing down Benji and Dan in Firefly trivia when the doorbell rings.

“Did any of you order more food?” Lovett asks. They all shake their heads. Lovett gets up from the table, resigned. Since he already knows Emily is an hour north of West Hollywood at a cookout with Jon’s parents, there’s only one other person who just drops by his house unannounced.

Or, at least, before Jon’s wedding, there was one other person. Since Jon’s wedding, Lovett’s picked fights about wine and wedding gifts and recording levels, Tommy’s mocked and withdrawn from him, and no spontaneous visits have been paid.

Lovett walks through the backyard where they have their set up and through his house to the front door, where Pundit is already perched, waiting for her favorite friend. Lovett almost groans when he opens the door and it is Tommy, in his fucking American flag shorts, holding a package of kosher hot dogs and a 6 pack of Miller Lite, smiling down at Jon's dog. Fucking _ fuck _ him. 

All of the sudden, Lovett is furious. He doesn't need this right now. “I have company over, do you need something?”

Tommy looks so genuinely spooked that Lovett almost feels guilty. He visibly collects himself, his National Security mask sliding into place. “I brought a peace offering,” he says, lifting his hands. “Your guests like hot dogs?”

“We’re actually in the middle of a game right now. And I was very certainly going to win, so.”

“Lovett.”

“And we’ve already eaten.”

“Well, can you at least take the beer? I’m absolutely not drinking Miller Lite by myself.”

Lovett rolls his eyes. “Yes, I’ll take the beer,” he reaches his hand out for Tommy to hand it to him. “But only because I deserve it.”

“Great,” Tommy deadpans, ignoring Lovett’s outstretched hand and pushing past him to walk into his house. “C'mon, Pundit. Let's put our gifts in the fridge.” She follows him in without hesitation, the little traitor.

Lovett follows them to the kitchen and watches Tommy deposit the bottles on the bottom shelf.

“Thanks. I’m sure you’re busy, now.”

Tommy closes the fridge and leans down to pick up Pundit. “Lovett, I refuse to be in a fight with you.”

“Great. Love a unilateral decision in a two-person friendship.”

Tommy winces, and then he squares his shoulders, shifting Pundit gently in his arms. “I’m not mad at you, so I’m not fighting with you. Tell me why you’re mad at me. I can fix it.” Those words, coming from anybody else, would sound condescending, but Tommy just sounds sad.

And that’s not _ fair_. Lovett’s first, second, and third strategy here is avoidance. What kind of WASP is Tommy if he can't be depended upon to bury unpleasant feelings and ignore any potential for emotional conflict?

Lovett can’t stop shaking his head.

Tommy abruptly looks terrified, and he drops his voice so low Lovett can barely hear it. “We can just forget about it, Lovett,” he chokes out. “The—the beach,” he adds. Pundit starts to squirm and Tommy sets her down, staring after her even after she's out of sight. “We can forget that if you need to.”

Something in Lovett just—shuts down at that. At Tommy’s audacity to drag everything into the light of day only to kill it. He laughs bitterly. “Yeah, who doesn’t need a shameful secret to keep life interesting?”

“_Lovett_," Tommy scolds. "If that's what it takes to make you _talk to me again..._”

“I get it, Tommy. We’re not fighting. I accept your fight resignation,” and the flatness of Lovett’s voice is so transparent it even disturbs him. He takes a deep breath. Assesses the damage, sees what he can salvage.

Tommy is here, obviously fighting to get things back to normal. That’s a start.

Lovett is suddenly flooded with panic that, if Tommy leaves right now, they’ll never salvage any of it. “We’re finishing up our game now and then we’re watching Independence Day. We’ll probably need hot dogs by that point.”

Tommy looks hesitantly at the hot dogs he’s holding in one big dumb hand. “Okay, do you want me to leave them here, or.”

Lovett shakes his head no. “We’ll need somebody capable of preparing the hot dogs.”

Tommy smiles his smallest smile. “Yeah?”

Lovett has to turn away from that. “I don’t have a grill though. How do you make hot dogs?”

Tommy laughs, looking relieved. “I brought a griddle pan,” he says, setting the package of hot dogs down on the counter. “I assumed that would be the case. It’s in my passenger seat. I’ll be back in two shakes of...some kind of mammal tail.”

Lovett watches him walk out. He gives himself a second to hunch over, just a second, to feel his flushed forehead against his granite countertops, eyes stinging, before he straightens and puts the hot dogs in the fridge, heading out back to tell the guys about the addition to their plans.

Under any other circumstances, Tommy would be an outcast here. _ Should _ be an outcast here, in Lovett's den of happy misfits. But aside from one sly, “_Do you think every time he fucks a woman, a bald eagle with the Bill of Rights tucked into its beak circles his household to bless their union_?” from Spencer when Tommy joins them in his patriotic trunks, the group just—folds him in.

Lovett’s noticed it before, but it’s stark here—how good Tommy is at code switching. Effortless in a way people like him never have to be. He’s authentic in both his reverence and his irreverence, as painstakingly earnest and kind as he is a bitchy little edgelord. It makes him adaptable to almost any situation, any group of people. It’s always been incredible to watch.

There’s a haze to it—to watching Tommy—to loving him, a mania that makes Lovett too sharp and not sharp enough in turns. Lovett knows when he’s leaning into it too much. _ He knows_, okay? It’s something that he’s working on. After their talk in the kitchen, he knows what Tommy wants and doesn’t want. He has his guidelines. In a lot of ways, that makes things simpler.

When the sun starts to set, they all move inside to watch the movie. Tommy slips into the kitchen to start on the hot dogs with Benji keeping him company. Dan and Spencer pull all the blankets and pillows out of Lovett’s cupboard of cozies while Lovett cues up Independence Day. Benji brings in the rest of the potato salad they didn’t get to earlier in the afternoon. Then he sticks a bottle of whiskey in the middle of the table with a stack of paper cups. “Your boy has a gourmet operation going on in there,” Benji says, gesturing toward the kitchen.

Lovett all but shivers as Benji turns back into the kitchen, apparently to grab the condiments.

Tommy comes out moments later with a couple plates filled with grilled dogs and toasted buns and sets them down on the table. “Here. You can all build your own. Lovett, I used a few plates because you don’t seem to own even one platter or tray?”

Spencer snickers and Lovett presses play before reaching over to doctor his hot dog. “I’m a minimalist,” he says. “Now shut up. No talking during movie night.”

They all fix their food before settling in, Pundit bopping around to each of them for pats before she curls up at Lovett's feet.

Tommy goes last, and then slots right in with the rest of them. Like they’ve been keeping space for him all this time.

**August 2017**

Tommy insists on a small birthday, which Emily accepts with only a little evident disappointment.

Tommy’s sister is in town with her partner, so Tommy spends the day with them and then they all meet up for dinner at the Favreau’s with Emily, Jon, and Lovett. Tommy had insisted on no presents, but they have cake and beer, and Emily leads them in singing _ Happy Birthday _while Tommy flushes crimson over the candle light.

It dies down pretty quickly after that. Taylor and her partner need to get back to their hotel and get a good night’s rest before their flight, and Jon starts yawning every 40 seconds.

Tommy and Lovett are putting their shoes on by the door when Lovett broaches it. “Hey, I actually have something for you at my place. Wanna pop in for a second?”

Tommy gives Lovett a stern look. “I thought we all agreed no presents?”

“I thought about it, and I decided I didn’t like the agreement. Besides, it’s not really even a present.”

Tommy follows Lovett across the street. Lovett can see where Tommy’s hands are fisted in his pockets. But that’s okay. That’s the whole point of this exercise. Lovett’s trying to get them back to a place where they can be alone and comfortable. Friends.

They reach Lovett’s house and, after Tommy spends eight minutes greeting Pundit, Lovett has him wait in his kitchen while he grabs what he needs from his bedroom. It seems like the safest option. “Help yourself to anything in the fridge,” he calls from across the house. “Except for the Hot Pockets I put in there to defrost, that’s my dinner.”

“Isn’t the whole point of Hot Pockets that you can cook them right out of the freezer?” Tommy asks.

“It’s a texture thing, Tommy. You wouldn’t understand,” he says as he walks back into the room, holding the flash drive in his hand. 

Tommy takes it in. “Is this, like, a long-journey joke about how I’m not fully converted to Google Docs, yet?”

“No,” Lovett laughs. “Actually, this is every episode of Firefly and the first season of Farscape. They’re not streaming anywhere, and Dan and Benji keep asking when you’re going to join trivia night. So, I figured this can help get you up to speed before they get in touch with you about that.”

Lovett slides it across the counter. Tommy just stares at it, not saying anything.

“I also included a document that spells out the prominent fan theories I thought you’d find most ridiculous. See? It’s a selfish gift. You’ll be on my team if you...join.” Lovett trails off because Tommy looks stricken. 

“_Why_?” Tommy asks, with the clipped tone he uses when he's trying keep himself calm.

Lovett’s stomach sinks, his face unbearably hot. “There’s obviously no pressure at all to join. It’s, like, frivolous. I just knew you were invited, so,” Lovett says, and he’s too loud, he knows he’s too loud, but he can’t stop. He reaches for the flash drive and slides it back to himself, wanting to scream at the way his hand shakes as he does it.

He genuinely doesn’t know what to do. It’s clear that he’s overstepped. Tommy doesn’t want to be folded in with Lovett’s friend group, folded into Lovett’s world.

These past few months, Lovett feels like he’s playing a game and he knows none of the rules. They've managed to keep things light at the office, but everything is still—just _off_. He thought this was going to help. He feels contagiously stupid, and _ fuck_. Why is his face _ burning_? He can’t think straight when his face is on fire.

He needs this to end. “So you’re good then? I’m sure you have other birthday festivities to get to.”

Tommy lets out a sad scoff. “I can never tell if I’m being a coward or a realist with you.”

And—_G-d_—Lovett can’t stand here and solve fucking riddles right now. “You’re neither of those things, Tommy,” he says, and he figures he can just turn around and lead Tommy to the front door to put them both out of their misery.

But the next thing he knows, Lovett is up against the fridge, Tommy’s knee pressed between his own.

“Tell me right now if I'm getting this wrong,” Tommy grits out. And Lovett has such whiplash, he can only manage a moan before he pulls Tommy toward him and then Tommy’s mouth is on his, tasting like beer and vanilla frosting. Lovett claws him closer, frantic, needing everything at once. Wanting to just, forget the distance. Forget to hole he’s dug himself with his best friend.

Tommy begins to pull back, and Lovett tries to follow with his mouth. “_Lovett_,” he says, leaning down to kiss him just once, soft, like he can’t help it. “_Lovett_,” he repeats.

“No,” Lovett says. He doesn’t want to talk. He wants Tommy to touch him. “_Please_, Tommy.” Tommy leans back in to bite at Lovett’s jaw, kissing down his neck.

“What do you want?” Lovett murmurs as Tommy bites and then soothes the soft skin under his ear with his tongue. He knows there will be marks tomorrow, and it makes him feel crazy.

“Lovett, you _ know_,” he starts, but then he seems to get distracted by Lovett’s mouth again, licking into it, making him squirm, only pulling back to kiss down his neck. “You _ have to _ know,” he whispers against Lovett’s adam’s apple, before sucking softly. “I would do _anything_ to be with you,” he breathes against Lovett’s skin, and he sounds much tipsier than he was just a second ago. Like he doesn’t even know what he’s saying.

“Shut up,” Lovett scolds. Because Tommy doesn’t _ mean it. _ He can’t just _ say things _like that. Things that cost him nothing and Lovett everything.

“No,” Tommy bitches.

“Shut _ up_,” Lovett repeats against Tommy’s mouth, sinking his fingers into Tommy’s soft hair, fisting it.

“You wore a button down for my birthday,” Tommy says, as if it’s something resonant, before tugging Lovett out of his shirt, one button at a time. Lovett feels his body sway gently with each pull. 

“_Lovett_,” he rasps when he has Lovett shirtless, running his hands up and down Lovett’s chest like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. 

Lovett lifts shaking hands to the hem of Tommy’s shirt, pushes it as far up as his height will allow before Tommy has to finish the job. Tommy’s flushed all the way down to his chest, muscles brutally and elegantly defined. Lovett doesn’t even know where to look, there’s so much that’s new. So much that Lovett aches for. He chokes on his want, can’t get his words out fast enough. “What do you want? Birthday boy calls the shots.”

Tommy stilling Lovett’s hands on Tommy’s shoulders are the only reason he realizes he’s been running them all over him. 

Tommy pushes up against him and Lovett can feel—fuck—Lovett can feel how hard Tommy is as he lines their hips up, grinds down. “Wanna—fucking do _ everything_. Thought about everything,” Tommy says.

And then they're kissing again, hips grinding desperately. In between every kiss, Tommy adds an item to their to-do list. “Wanna swallow you down, feel you come down my throat,” Tommy whines. “Wanna taste you everywhere. Lick into you. Feel where you get silky soft on my tongue,” he adds in a sob. They don’t even seem to be in conscious control of their own hips at this point. Mindless, clutching each other. “Want to fuck you, Lo. I think about it,” he gasps. “Think about it _ all the time_.”

Lovett can’t help the smug look on his face when he reaches his hand into Tommy’s pants and feels him hard and leaking, feels Tommy gasp against his mouth. “Want to fuck your mouth. Feel your little fucking smirk on my cock,” Tommy breathes. And that, well, _ yes_. Yes to all of it tonight and _ yes to that right now_.

Lovett presses one more kiss to Tommy’s mouth, a promise, and then, with a grace that Lovett reserves for literally only this, he drops to his knees.

**September 2017**

The last weekend in September Emily puts her foot down and insists they all go out instead of ordering postmates to the Favreaus’ and watching Frasier. (Or, when Lovett’s comfortable enough to check all pretense at the door, YouTube compilations of Frasier’s Most Homoerotic Moments). 

The four of them are sitting around in a booth polishing off their second round when Jon suggests that Lovett cover the next.

“I’m in a West Hollywood gay bar surrounded by straight people,” Lovett rejects. He sees Tommy start at that, and honestly, a man with the sheer physical presence and obvious strength of Thomas Vietor IV should not have the ability to just crinkle his brow and tilt his head to turn into a puzzled puppy. So Lovett ploughs on. “This is devastating for me. You should be getting all my rounds! Even one round is too many rounds for me to contribute under these oppressive circumstances.”

“Boo hoo,” Jon rolls his eyes, but stands up to get the next round. Lovett turns to Emily with a smile. Emily laughs, and Lovett feels Tommy nudge his foot gently into Lovett’s, letting it rest there even as Jon comes back with three margaritas and a strawberry daiquiri with extra orange slices.

Lovett grins, pulling the pink drink off the tray to cup with both hands. “Thank you, Jon. I’ve decided that I respect you now.”

Jon laughs, easy. “Oh, thank god. ‘Cause really, I’ve lost hours of my life worrying about that.”

“Fuck you,” Lovett chirps. And he is about to add on a truly brilliant retort, but he feels Tommy slide a hand onto his thigh, proprietary and warm, just below Lovett’s hip. In the moment it takes Lovett to reboot, Emily has already moved the conversation in another direction. 

The evening goes on like that, the Favreaus bright and magnetic, Tommy wry and sweet, slowly escalating physical contact until he’s pressed all along Lovett’s side in their spacious booth, inching the hand on Lovett’s thigh over and up—until until _ until_, but then inching back, only to repeat the slow build again.

At some point, Emily and Jon call an audible, pretending to yawn as they lead each other out with knowing smiles. Which, apparently, divorces Tommy from any restraint he’d been exercising up to that point. He slides one leg over Lovett’s, resting his head against Lovett’s shoulder and breathing him in. And Lovett knows—he _ knows _ there’s some reason they shouldn’t be doing this, but he just, can’t grasp it right now.

“Is your drink good?” Lovett asks, in hopes of finding slightly steadier ground, tilting his chin toward Tommy’s margarita. Tommy just nods, reaching for his drink without losing contact with Lovett, tilting his head on Lovett’s shoulder, looking up through his eyelashes to hold the straw up to Lovett’s lips. One thing Lovett’s noticed in the past month of—_whatever _ this is—is that sometimes Tommy likes to make himself as small as possible, and sometimes he likes to take up all the space there is in a room. Sometimes he wants both in the same night.

Lovett takes a sip from Tommy’s drink, nodding when he swallows as if to say, _ it’s good_. Tommy smiles, naughty, and then, lightning quick, gently bites at Lovett’s neck before straightening into his NSC posture, as if nothing had happened.

Lovett freezes. A week of muscle memory has taught Lovett to squawk, slide into Tommy’s lap, tickle him until he screams uncle, red-cheeked. _ G-d_, he loves when Tommy is playful like this with him. But Lovett forces himself to pause because—this is Tommy. Flirting with him in public. Straight Tommy. Or well, closeted, _maybe_ bi Tommy.

Avoiding being completely consumed by Tommy was easier when he didn’t know how fucking _good_ they were. How full Tommy makes him feel, how sweet, how dirty, how sated. But this, _in_ _public_, it’s something else altogether.

Something must have shown on Lovett’s face, because Tommy stiffens, the mirth draining from his expression. “You’re so fucking frustrating,” Tommy grouches, before standing up abruptly and pulling Lovett up with him, tugging him toward the back of the bar.

Between one thing and another, Tommy gets Lovett into the bathroom, grumbling to himself all the while. Lovett only catches snippets of what Tommy’s saying—_of all people—nothing straight about—little monster_, before Tommy is pulling him inside and locking the door behind them.

The minute they’re behind closed doors, something shifts. Tommy looks at Lovett like—_G-d—_like he wants to _ destroy _ him. “I can’t stop. I just can’t fucking _ stop _ with you,” Tommy groans, and then he’s backing Lovett up to the long counter.

The part of Lovett that’s still capable of pattern recognition expects Tommy to lift him up onto the long counter, a favorite Tommy move. Instead, he pulls Lovett against him, Lovett’s back to Tommy’s chest, so they’re both facing the mirror. Lovett can feel Tommy’s hardness against his tailbone, can feel Tommy’s thumbs brush against Lovett’s biceps where he’s holding him. It’s all so much so fast, leaving him practically panting with a need to come that pounds through his veins. For _fuck's_ sake, Tommy hasn't even _touched _him yet.

Lovett reaches behind him to get his hand on Tommy’s cock, but Tommy grips him in place, not letting him initiate.

Their eyes lock in the mirror, and Lovett sees a renewed focus on Tommy’s face. He shivers as Tommy begins, so gently, running his hands all over Lovett’s chest and shoulders. “Look at us,” Tommy commands. Lovett keeps his eyes on Tommy’s, feeling overwhelmed, _ possessed_. 

“Tell me we look good,” Tommy breathes. “Tell me how good we are.”

“Tommy?” Lovett’s tries to turn so they’re face to face, but Tommy holds him fast again.

“_Tell me,_” Tommy repeats, and runs his hands down to the soft crook of Lovett’s elbow, where he’s so fucking sensitive, and _fuck_ _Tommy_. For knowing that. For making Lovett feel everything all the time. Tommy somehow turns every part of Lovett’s body into an erogenous zone.

“I don’t know what you _ want_,” Lovett whimpers.

“I want you to tell me that we fit. I want you to tell me this is exactly where you belong.”

His thumb grazes Lovett’s nipple over his tee shirt _ just so _ and Lovett feels his eyes sting. “Fucking, _touch_ me, you psychopath.”

“Say it,” Tommy repeats.

“Tommy, _ please_.” Lovett whines, out of his mind, when Tommy grazes his fingers, tickle soft, over Lovett’s happy trail.

“Need it. Need you. _Say_ _it_, Lo,” he repeats in his softest voice. “You know how to make me happy.”

And that? Breaks Lovett, makes him close his stinging eyes, wanting to hide from it. From just how good it is. From just how much this will hurt when it’s all gone again. “We look—we look good. ‘Xactly where. Where I belong.” 

Tommy closes his eyes, rests his forehead gently against the back of Lovett’s head. He can feel Tommy draw a deep breath in where his chest is pressed against Lovett’s back. Then he gets right to it, no overture, no opening credits, just slides his hands down to unbutton Lovett’s maroon pants and jerks them down just enough to free Lovett’s aching cock before he wraps his long fingers around it. Relief courses through Lovett, making him shiver.

“So _ good_,” Tommy whispers. Lovett closes his eyes at the rasp of Tommy’s voice, at the heat of his hand. He can already feel himself dripping precome onto Tommy’s fingers as he gathers it at the tip and strokes along Lovett’s shaft, slow and tight, just how Lovett needs it.

“Open your eyes, Lo. _ Look _ at us,” Tommy says. _ G-d_. Not this again.

Lovett opens his eyes with some effort, and for the first time since Tommy asked, Lovett actually does look, taking them in. Lovett is curly and mussed, his pupils so dilated he can barely see the brown of his iris. And _ Tommy—fuck—Tommy _ is flushed and dewy, his lips obscenely swollen for a man who hasn’t been kissed in—_G-d_—Lovett hasn’t kissed Tommy tonight. Just the thought makes his mouth water. Makes him lick his lips involuntarily.

“Jesus, Lovett—your, your…” Tommy finds the right rhythm in no time, works him up until he is on the precipice and then—_and then_—he pulls his hand away.

“What? _ No_,” Lovett panics. But then Tommy lifts his fingers to Lovett’s mouth, coating Lovett’s lips with Lovett’s precome before he turns Lovett’s head roughly towards him, pressing his mouth to Lovett’s, breathing him in.

“Your fucking _ mouth_,” Tommy groans, pained. His tongue traces Lovett’s lips, lapping up the taste of him, before he pushes his way into Lovett’s mouth.

Lovett whines, angling his head to get more of Tommy, their tongues tangling softly until Tommy pulls back, less than an inch, to bring his fingers back to his mouth and finish sucking his fingers clean. “So fucking pretty,” he murmurs as he runs his fingers along Lovett’s lips one more time, looking lost to it.

“Tommy, Tommy, I gotta…” he takes a shallow breath, his lungs burning.

“I know,” Tommy shushes. “I know. I’ve got you.”

With a final cursory glance at the bathroom door, Tommy trails his left hand down between their bodies. Drawing up between Lovett’s legs until—ahh—he rests his fingers at Lovett’s hole. “_Look_ _at_ _us_,” Tommy repeats, and Lovett looks up to see Tommy tuck his chin over Lovett’s shoulder right as he begins circling his hole with his spit slicked index finger. Slowly circling, pressing, _pressing_, until Lovett’s hole just swallows him up, just to the knuckle, making them both gasp.

Lovett floats as Tommy works his finger in, then slowly, a second, keeping his eyes on their reflection in the mirror, on his own mouth, open and panting when he can no longer hold it closed. Tommy, gently smiling into Lovett’s shoulder, hitting him just shy of where he needs it.

Tommy’s free hand is gripping Lovett’s hip so tightly, giving Lovett a dull jolt of delicious pain. He’ll be pretty bruised up there tomorrow. Lovett lets out a whimper at the thought. “Please. _ Need it_. Tommy.”

Tommy sounds choked. “Lovett, I…_ fuck_,” He pulls back suddenly, just a little, still keeping Lovett upright. “Plant your hands on the counter,” he orders. As soon as Lovett complies, Tommy breaks away suddenly, pulling his fingers gently out of Lovett before stalking to the corner of the bathroom where there’s a circular table and two chairs.

Before Lovett can voice a very strongly-worded complaint, Tommy’s dragged the chair closest to them over to Lovett, sitting in it himself before tugging Lovett into his lap decisively, Lovett’s back still to Tommy’s front, still facing the mirror.

Lovett gives a second’s thought to moving to a smarter venue, but any sensible part of his brain fucks off when he sees Tommy pull a lube packet from his wallet, hears a flurry of movement behind him, and then, finally, feels Tommy slide him back on his lap until he’s sliding _ onto Tommy_, just like that.

“Yesss,” Lovett gasps. He’s at the perfect angle to see them, to see himself exposed and hard, to see Tommy’s cock filling him so perfectly as he feels it stretching him. Lovett tries to shift forward to get leverage on the bathroom counter, but Tommy holds pulls him closer, slipping his hand underneath Lovett’s thighs and drawing Lovett’s legs up and apart, as much as the pants still pooled at his ankles will allow.

“Oh _ g-d_,” Lovett breathes, planting his hands on the chair arms to try and lift himself up as much as he can, the movement so tiny and ineffectual without any help from Tommy. He groans—it’s too much—it’s not enough, feeling how Tommy fills him like this, holding him tight against his chest, legs held hostage in Tommy’s big warm hands. Lovett is so keyed up, so sensitive, that every little move is making him shiver. Tommy just smirks, holds him still, keeps him completely at his mercy. And he keeps looking.

“Fuck, _ look _ at us,” Tommy commands, and Lovett’s eyes snap up to see Tommy’s skating over him, face slack with desire, before his eyes flick up to find Lovett’s in their reflection. “How we _ fit_. Perfect”

“Jesus christ, Tommy. Fucking—_let me_—”

“Say it again, Lovett.”

“Say what? Say _ what_?” Lovett snaps.

“You want this,” Tommy groans, as he lifts Lovett up, just a half an inch, using just the strength of his arms, and then slides him back down. _ Fuck_. “We’re good—so _ good_, Lovett,” another little lift, and Lovett can’t breathe. “You’re mine,” Tommy says, all gravel, and lowers him again. Locking eyes in the mirror as Lovett tries to plant his hands to move himself again, only for Tommy to tilt back in the chair so the counter is out of their reach.

“No,” Tommy says. “_Say _ it.”

Lovett has to close his eyes. Why does Tommy have to take up residence in every single part of Lovett? Why do his touch, his words, skate through every defense Lovett’s built for himself.

“Open your eyes, sweetheart,” Tommy says, and when Lovett complies, he sees that Tommy’s eyes are shining too, his thumbs stroking the crooks of Lovett’s knees where he’s holding his legs. It’s just too much.

“I’m yours,” Lovett chokes, too sad, too true.

But then—“Yeah,” Tommy says, a smile spreading across his face. “Yeah, you’re _ mine_,” he repeats, like it’s precious news, like Lovett’s handed him the fix to a problem Tommy thought was unfixable.

And then Tommy’s shifting forward, _just so_, and his cock brushes Lovett’s prostate, sucking all the oxygen out of the room again. Lovett can feel the gentle tremor in Tommy’s arms as he begins grinding Lovett down onto his cock in earnest. And Lovett is so close—has been close for what feels like forever. 

“Fuck, Lovett, look at you. So perfect for me,” Tommy grinds deeper into him, the power of his core and the strength of his shoulders and arms the only thing keeping them both from collapsing off the chair.

“Yours,” Lovett grunts, and so suddenly, Lovett feels Tommy’s cock spasm, filling Lovett with his come. He can feel every twitch, every shallow thrust as he spills into him—and _ that—fuck_, that’s so unbearably good—Lovett’s coming untouched, swallowing a scream as it hits him like a mack truck.

Somewhere far away, Tommy’s blissed out voice is whispering, “That’s it, Lo. That’s it, baby. _My_ _baby_.” And Lovett just floats for a minute, a day, maybe, before he follows the voice back to his reality. Listening to Tommy has always been a full-body experience for Lovett. Now he can actually feel the vibrations against his back as Tommy speaks to him, feel the hot breath against his ear. 

Lovett starts to find his bearings as Tommy gently lowers Lovett’s legs, keeps him seated on his lap, hugging him around his middle. “If we were anywhere besides a bar bathroom,” Tommy rasps—and fuck—his voice is deep like this, “I’d keep you right here in my lap. Right here keeping my cock warm while we went about the rest of our night.”

Lovett feels his cock give an eager, exhausted twitch at that. “_G-d_, Tommy. I can’t come again,” he whimpers.

And Tommy just snickers, squeezing Lovett closer against him for a moment before lifting Lovett up by his hips, pulling himself from him very slowly, a little of his come spilling down against Lovett’s thigh, striking up another wave of hot want.

Lovett is just about to turn in Tommy’s lap to kiss him, side saddle, since his maroon pants are still half on, but just then, somebody bangs violently on the door. “Are you fucking kidding me with how long you’ve been in there?”

Lovett stands up abruptly, carefully pivoting to face Tommy, and when they spot the shock on each other’s faces, they burst into giggles. Hurriedly, they waddle to the paper towel dispenser, and then back over to the sink, to clean up as best they can, pulling their clothes back into proper order. They wash their hands and splash cold water on their flushed faces. But, really, nobody in that line is going to be oblivious to what just happened. 

_ Which—fuck_. Reality crashes back in, making Lovett freeze in place.

Tommy and Lovett are something resembling public figures now and Tommy’s not _ out_.

Panic presses down on Lovett’s chest as his mind reels for some way they can get out of this bathroom so people won’t see Tommy’s face.

Tommy apparently has no such compunction, because he takes Lovett’s hand and pushes through the bathroom door, pulling Lovett past a couple annoyed expressions and a few more lusty ones, seemingly completely impervious, until they’re out on the curb, Tommy handing his ticket to the valet.

When the valet has given his instructions and stepped back into his booth, Tommy turns to Lovett with a little smile, stepping back into his space. “Mine or yours?”

“What?” Lovett squeaks. Because about five things he didn’t understand just happened and he’s trying to catch up.

“Your preference for where we go tonight?” Tommy explains. “We can bring Pundit to mine if you two want a change of scenery.”

Lovett is baffled. “Tommy, people just saw us, they know...they could guess what we were doing...in there.”

If Lovett was expecting Tommy’s shy grin to slide off his face, though, for the implications to hit him in a burst of panic or numbness, he’d be wrong again. Tommy’s smile turns filthy, possessiveness and pride seeping into his tone when he responds, “Yeah, Lovett, they’ll know.”

“And that’s…” Lovett pauses, “Okay with you?”

Tommy seems to react to something in Lovett’s tone because—there it is—Tommy’s soft, satisfied expression disappears.

“Jesus, Lovett, do you listen to a fucking _word_ I say?”

“What? I’m just trying to—I know you’re not _ out_, Tommy. I don’t want to out you when you’re not ready.”

An unreadable expression passes over Tommy’s face before the valet pulls up with his car. Tommy takes his keys with a clipped thank you and a no-doubt astronomical tip before tucking himself into the sedan. Lovett follows, folding into the passenger seat, trying to find a fight-appropriate posture before resigning himself to criss cross applesauce.

“I don’t care who knows about me, Lovett. That’s not, like, a thing,” Tommy says flatly, not looking at Lovett, pulling the car away from the booth and syncing with the flow of traffic. White-knuckling the steering wheel like he’s preparing for an argument, too. “How many ways do I have to fucking—I’m in your life _ on purpose_, Lovett.”

“Okay, I believe you. We’re not _ fighting_, Tommy,” and it’s more a mandate than a statement. Lovett is trying to buy a little time to process this information. Tommy doesn’t care who knows about him. And, based on his actions back in the bar, Tommy, well, _ huh—_Tommy doesn’t seem to care who knows about _ them _ either, whatever they are.

Tommy lets out a heavy sigh. “I fucking hate when you act like my being in your life is a fluke caused by, like, proximity. Or shared interests and friends. At some point, you’re going to have to acknowledge my agency in all of this.”

And that_—_that’s actually_—_okay, that’s fair. Lovett just nods, for lack of anything to say. Trust Tommy to identify what amounts to a lifetime of self-sabotaging instincts in one uncomfortable ten-minute car ride.

“I _ choose _ this,” Tommy adds, so quietly, and it doesn’t even sound regretful. It makes Lovett _ ache _ more than anything, so close to what he wants to hear. _ I choose you. _

Lovett _ has _ to redirect this. “Please stop brooding,” Lovett tries to laugh. “I just want to make sure that you’re...good...with...whatever we do.”

That seems to thaw Tommy a bit, making the air in the car a little easier to breathe. “Yeah, we’re—Yeah, Lovett. I’m good. Are you good?” The way Tommy’s voice cracks on the last word makes Lovett want to be brave, give Tommy some reassurance.

“I’m good,” Lovett says, sure. And then adds, “Happy, you know, when we get to...be like this.” _ Cool_, Lovett. Specific.

But Tommy just—_expands_ at that—almost too sweet and crinkly to stare at directly. Lovett can’t stand how good it feels to have caused it, and he tries to hide his own smile in his shoulder.

Tommy reaches the hand he’s not using to steer to rest on Lovett’s thigh. “Cool,” he says, in his dorkiest voice, the one that's somehow both soft and percussive, all excitement. “That’s so—me too. _Me too_, Lovett.” And Lovett just lets that sit. Lets it warm him up, take up all the room it wants in his chest.

They decide to bring Pundit to Tommy’s that night. She did want a change of scenery.

**October 2017**

Tommy has, apparently, lost interest in his own bed. A fact that makes Lovett happy enough that he lets himself ignore his mounting confusion about it.

And since Tommy’s gotten into quite a little routine sleeping in Lovett’s bed every night, he seems content to keep it up when they go on the road, sneaking into his room after each day’s festivities in Madison, Ann Arbor, Cleveland, and now Chicago.

It’s their last night on this leg of the tour, and Tommy and Jon went out afterward to relive their Chicago glory days. Translation: Go to a filthy sports bar where everybody is cranky and drink $3 beers while eating bowl after bowl of stale popcorn.

Lovett, Tanya, Elissa, and Sarah opted for a nightcap in the hotel bar.

Lovett’s already gotten back to his room, ready for bed, and his inbox at zero, even squeezing in a quick phone call with his mom, when he hears Tommy and Jon approach his door.

“Night, Jon,” he hears Tommy say.

“Night, man. Say good night to Lovett for me.” Then he hears the electronic whirr of the hotel key card sliding into its slot. 

And that’s—strange. Lovett knows that Tommy’s out, or not hiding at least, but... Okay, so Jon _ knows. _ About Tommy. And Jon also, apparently, knows that Tommy is going to sleep in Lovett’s room. _ With Lovett. _ And is very nonchalant about that fact.

It’s not the first time Lovett’s had to acknowledge that his assumptions were all wrong when it comes to Tommy. But this time, looking at their suitcases lying next to each other on the floor, their tee shirts mingling, hearing their shared best friend mention them so casually, Lovett feels like maybe he could ask. Maybe he could ask and not lose _everything_.

Tommy walks into the room as Lovett closes his laptop and stands from the small hotel room desk.

“Hi.” Tommy smiles, steps into his space to greet him with a soft kiss.

“Hi,” Lovett repeats, pressing their mouths together again. “How was it? Did the bar still have the soft pretzels?”

Tommy brightens. “Jon and I got the last two.”

“Good night for you.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, and pulls Lovett into a tight hug, wrapping himself around him and then just kind of _ collapsing _ into it. Tommy does this sometimes at the end of long days—good or bad—just stands all coiled around Lovett like this while they debrief, until Lovett bitches about the weight and Tommy maneuvers them to bed.

Lovett loves it. Tommy is so _ touch starved_. One of the best things about the past month has been that Tommy has started just reaching for Lovett when he needs to. Lovett gets to feel Tommy’s heart rate slow against his chest, feel his face muscles relax against his neck. Gets to know he’s helping.

“How was your night in?” Tommy asks into Lovett’s shoulder.

“Good. It was nice to catch up with Tanya about something other than work.” He takes a deep breath and adds, “And—hey—I had a call with my mom.”

“Yeah? How is she?”

“Good. She wanted to check in with me about my plans for Thanksgiving. She wanted to start talking about it early in case I’m joining them in Florida and need to book travel.”

Tommy nods into his neck. “You think you want to go to Florida?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Lovett says, and then braces himself, which is ridiculous, because Tommy can feel the tension in every part of Lovett’s body right now. Tommy’s hands start to move in circles on his back, soothing him. “And, also, there’s a thing you could think about—now, or—or later. Whenever. She told me I should bring my someone. If, uh, if I have a someone. So. How do you feel about Florida in November?”

Tommy pulls back, trying to get a good look at Lovett. He watches as Tommy gets his NatSec look, the one he gets when he’s sifting through information, deciding what he can give away, what he needs to keep. Lovett tries to give him the space to do that, tries not to assume he already knows the answer, even though it's antithetical to his entire identity and disposition. He digs his nails into his own thighs. 

“I’d go as your—as your someone?” Tommy grits out.

Lovett just nods, his heart in his throat. But when Tommy finally speaks, it’s in his warmest voice. He looks suddenly _ weightless, _smiling unselfconsciously. “Yes. Yeah, of course, Lovett.” 

Lovett feels his entire body light up, his smile spreading across his face with no command from his higher brain function to stop it. “Cool,” Lovett nods. “_Cool_,” he repeats. Because it is.

“I’ve wanted this for a long time.” Tommy’s eyes, when wet, are too blue. Too sweet. Lovett can’t stand it. He rests his hands on Tommy’s chest, rising to his tip toes.

“Me too, Tommy,” he laughs, high on relief, on Tommy. “I’m going to kiss you now, okay?”

“Okay,” Tommy smiles. They manage as much of a kiss as they can, basically brushing their smiles against each other since they can’t seem to stop. Tommy lifts Lovett up and sets him on Tommy’s feet, beginning to walk him toward the center of the room.

“I’m going to take you to bed now, okay?”

Lovett smiles, leans in and lets himself be carried. “Okay.”

***

Some time later, after several incredible displays of athleticism from _his someone_, Lovett is tangled up with Tommy and their hotel sheets. He's resting his head on Tommy's stomach, lazily tracing letters and patterns along his abdomen while Tommy tries to guess what he's writing, feeling Tommy play with his curls.

"Write something happy," Tommy laughs.

T-R-U-M-P-I-M-P-E-A-C-H-M-E-N-T, Lovett traces out.

"Crossing my fingers for that," Tommy laughs, then adds, "Write something sweet."

Lovett does his best to trace a silhouette of Pundit.

"A misshapen box?" Tommy guesses.

Lovett gasps. "How dare you! That's my daughter."

Tommy giggles while Lovett pokes him in the chest, grabs Lovett's finger in his hand and kisses the knuckle of his index finger.

"Write something true," he breathes, this ridiculous little vixen, looking at Lovett through his blond eyelashes.

Lovett nuzzles into his sternum as Tommy frees his hand so he can write I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U.

He hears Tommy's sharp intake of breath, turns his chin to rest on Tommy's chest and see his glassy eyes. He reaches for the familiar panic, that sharp, buzzy sting, waits for his body to lock down. But the thing is, he knows he's safe here. He's safe with Tommy. No matter what. Tommy's fought hard enough to make that clear.

Tommy rotates them so they're on their sides, sliding down until they're eye to eye, and then down a little further to kiss the skin right over Lovett's heart. "That's really good," Tommy says, choked, dreamy, and kisses Lovett's chest again. He brings his hand up to softly brush where he just kissed. "You and me," he whispers, and then he's smiling, brilliant and excruciatingly beautiful.

"I love you right back, Jon Lovett," Tommy breathes, and leans up to kiss him for good measure.


End file.
